More than envying their 16th birthday Eagle Talons and Volkswagen Cabriolets, their country club homes and bedrooms with full bathrooms en suite; more than their finished-furnished basements and golf course backyards with infrequent and always foreseeable, or in the case of basement stairs, fore-hear-able, parental contact, I wanted the rich kids’ depravity. Condemned it in front of others, yes, but longed for it inside, for it to satisfy all my deficiencies.
And in the realms of experience, I was truly deficient. Snorting cocaine out of reach, without yet descending through hallucinogens nor hashish, I resided in the outer circle reserved for those who smoked bummed marijuana with a homemade bowl. I had never even bought pot! And how foreign are older sisters sunbathing topless at the house pool and handjobs delivered by volleyball managers to one whose jerkoff library houses only an SI swimsuit issue and a Frederick’s of Hollywood catalogue the postman mis-delivered. Not even a ’70s Playboy!
I already knew of Joe’s exploits with contraband consumables before we stayed at his London flat. I was about to learn about his excesses of the other kind. And since revelry loves company, I found out a bit about absent acquaintances. Joe’s landlord ran an antique store on the first floor and stored unpromising past purchases, and the so-recently-acquired yet to find floor space, in Joe’s … ho, let me correct, oh so sensibly – the antique store was on the ground floor and Joe rented the first and second. Within minutes of arriving, I saw an .mpeg of a woman servicing a horse. After two days, dirty magazines appeared on low boys and tiny tiny tables where they hadn’t been before. Mayfair lay on Vintage’s Collected Works of Rainer Maria Rilke. I found a pentalingual porno magazine on the mantle below portraits of Marx and Engels. Waiters, construction workers, hotel staff, the working class was getting what it wanted, usually en masse. Joe pulled down escort service cards pasted inside public phones, “Got it, got it, need it, got it…” While prepping for a barbecue, I saw the freak eat uncooked beef.
At the same barbecue, his father fully admitted to frequenting prostitutes. Of course, that is the depraved doctrine of the rich: not giving a fuck that you know how fucked up they are. Meanwhile, I’m considering thieving away that Mayfair because, 21 years old, I still don’t have the stones to get one lawfully.
And why do they always have pet snakes?

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